


Overreach

by evitably



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Carolina Appreciation Week, Established Relationship, F/M, Project Freelancer, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evitably/pseuds/evitably
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Carolina needs to be reminded that she doesn't need to do everything by herself.<br/>Sometimes, people would like to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overreach

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Carolina Appreciation Week on tumblr.
> 
> Many thanks to Eeyore9990, who gave me the most interesting beta session I've had in a good while.  
> Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own; concrit is always welcome.

A punch, a kick, a sharp pivot to the right. The spinning makes her dizzy. Another pivot because she misses her target, then a kick as high as her shoulder that disables it and turns it red.

" _Round complete._ " F.I.L.L.S's voice fills the room. " _Shall I reset the training room floor, Agent Carolina?_ "

There's sweat on Carolina's brow that makes her fringe stick uncomfortably to her forehead; more keeps running down her neck and back in tiny, ticklish rivulets. She can't remember how long she's been at it.

"Yes," she says, because this _session_ is nothing about actual training. She is only flesh and bones, while Texas doesn't bleed when she's hurt: she _sparks_. How can Carolina beat something like _that_?

The targets change their color to green, and Carolina kicks, and punches, and spins fast enough to match the targets' speed. And again. And again, until she's run out of air, her muscles ache, and her head hurts where her helmet presses against it.

"Again," she rasps, but there's a hand on her shoulder: light and gentle and insubstantial, and not at all as heavy as a hand wearing armor would be.

It's York.

She ignores him. "Again, F.I.L.L.S."

" _I'm sorry, but starting a training session while unprotected personnel are on the training floor is against safety protocols._ "

"Carolina ..." says York. She thinks he might be squeezing her shoulder, but she can't feel it through her shoulder plate. "Don't you think it's time to stop?"

She shakes his hand off. " _Again_ , F.I.L.L.S."

" _Agent York, please step off the training floor._ "

"C'mon, Carolina, you can come back tomorrow. It's been hours." This time, his hand grabs hold of her wrist plate, and his voice softens. "Don't do this to yourself. Please."

Carolina closes her eyes. It's just for a second, but when she blinks them back open, the targets are gone and there are black spots dancing across her vision. "Looks like F.I.L.L.S. agrees with you," she says wryly, covering his hand with her own, her glove dwarfing his palm the way his dwarfs her naked hand, and licks her lips, tasting salt where her mouth meets skin. 

For a moment, for _this_ moment, maybe she'll allow herself the rest.

"Thank you," York says, and then he's pulling her towards the exit, one hand between hers, and the other hovering right over the small of her back. Carolina leans into him a little, the tiniest bit; she knows he'll understand.

York leads her to the common room all of them share. "I'll bring you some water," he says and Carolina obediently sinks into a ratty armchair whose upholstery has seen much better days. She throws her head back, closes her eyes again, and thinks she must've fallen asleep between then and the time York calls her name.

She opens her eyes, sees him kneeling in front of her through the visor. She can't bring herself to move.

"Do you need help taking off your helmet?" he asks.

Carolina grunts and struggles to sit upright, to raise her hands to the clasps of her helmet, to undo the mechanism and to pull it off. But she manages it with only minimal fumbling and lets it drop in her lap.

York is looking up at her. She meets his gaze, and one of his slow, gentle smiles rises to the surface. "Hello," he says softly and raises his hand to her face, tucks away a sweat-soaked lock of hair behind her ear. His movement is hesitant and as slow as his smile, and Carolina's heart clenches at the reminder that York's depth perception is almost entirely gone.

"Hello," she replies and presses her lips against the base of his palm. His pulse is strong and steady, skin warm under hers, and she leans her head against his hand, knowing he'll support her both willingly and with ease.

"Now don't fall back asleep on me, Carolina," he chides, voice still low, but there's the lilt of a smile in his tone. He slowly pulls his hand away from her face and picks up a tall glass from the floor with a faint _clink_ , then makes sure she's holding it up by wrapping her still-gloved fingers around it and covering them with his own. "You must be thirsty."

She is. She brings the glass up to her lips and takes a mouthful, letting the cool water play against her tongue before swallowing. Another sip, and the glass is half empty before York puts some pressure on her wrist and she remembers that she needs to breathe.

Her head's pounding. She drinks the rest of the water in smaller sips, and once the glass is entirely empty, York takes it from her hand. "More?" he asks.

"Please."

He stands, but doesn't leave before he's kissed the top of her head. He doesn't mind it that she has helmet hair and that it stinks both of sweat and the material it rubbed against.

He never has.

She must've dozed off again, because the next thing she's aware of is York kneeling in front of the armchair once more, this time bearing two glasses of water. He hands her one. "Here." He only lets go of it once he's certain she won't drop it.

"Better?" he asks after she's drunk them both.

Carolina leans forward and rests her cheek on top of York's head. "Thank you," she says into his hair by way of answering.

York shifts his weight, raises his arms, and wraps them around her armor in an awkward hug. Then he pulls back. "Come on," he says and rises up to his feet, holding her helmet in one hand and gently pulling her up and in the direction of their room. "Let's go to bed, all right?"

"Already tired?" she huffs out in laughter, but she's leaning some of her weight against him in exhaustion again.

He chuckles. "What can I say? I need my beauty sleep." He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "Not all of us have natural beauty and all that."

"You're such a sap," Carolina says affectionately. She's a mess that only a shower and six hours of undisturbed sleep could fix, and they both know it.

"Mm," York says with another one of his smiles as he opens the door to their room. "I guess I am."

He closes the door behind them, turns the light switch. Carolina starts feeling for the clasps of her armor, but apparently she's spent the leftovers of today's fine motor skills on taking off her helmet and drinking water.

"Need a hand?" York asks.

"Think you could spare two?"

"I'll see what I can do," he laughs and undoes the clasps for her chest and hand plates, then her leg plates, pulls her suit off with the ease of familiarity. Next he puts the pieces and her helmet back in place, right next to his own.

The air feels really good against Carolina's overheated body, even through the shirt and tights she wears under her armor. Her body feels lighter now, less bulky. Freer. She looks up at York's face, and sees it open and warm and ... fond.

On impulse, she cups his face in her hands -- no fine motor required for that, only the raising of aching arms and the press of her palms against his cheeks -- and leans up to kiss him lightly on the lips.

"Not that I'm complaining, or anything," York says once she pulls back, "but weren't we talking about bed?"

Carolina pulls a face and starts tugging at her clothes, trying to take them off. She manages her tights, underwear and shirt with little problem, even manages to get rid of her socks once she sits down on the bottom bunk of their bunk bed, but her bra proves beyond her abilities.

"Help," she says, and York obligingly helps her out of it.

"Anything else?" he asks.

Carolina contemplates a shower, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it shows up. It can wait. "Sleep," she says. She pulls the covers down enough that she can slide between the sheets, and the moment her head hits the pillow she lets out a sigh of relief. 

She expects York to climb up to the upper bunk and sleep there after he turns off the light, but instead he sits on the edge of the mattress. "Budge over a little, will you?" he says.

She does. "I stink," she warns him as he wraps an arm around her waist, the hem of his shirtsleeve tickling her side before it settles down.

"Don't care," he counters, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "This is where I want to be."

Carolina smiles, and covers his hand with her palm. It's smaller than his, slightly thicker in the wrist, more slender in the fingers. "Thank you," she says, softly, glad for the darkness and that she's not facing him. "For everything."

York's only reply is another kiss to her shoulder blade, and the tightening of his arm around her.


End file.
